


sugar sugar

by capebretons



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Boston Bruins, Dallas Stars, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sugar Daddy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-20 14:20:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8252252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capebretons/pseuds/capebretons
Summary: Patrice Bergeron is not Tyler Seguin's sugar daddy.No, he's not.





	

"Holy shit," Jordie's laughing, gleeful. "Patrice Bergeron is your sugar daddy."

"Fuck you, no," Tyler's talking with his mouth full, but at least he knows what the fuck he's talking about. He takes a second, swallows. "Jordie, you sound ignorant."

"Big word," Ales says, sarcastic, not looking up from his phone. Ales always texts during team dinner. It's always Julie on the other end. 

"Fuck you, too," Tyler rolls his eyes, taking another bite of his burger. "Neither of you know what the hell you're talking about. He's my  _ friend. _ "

"You can be friends with your sugar daddy," Jamie says, thoughtful. "I think. I'm not really sure how those things work."

"Of course you don't," Sharpy nods, sympathetic. "You're a twenty-seven-year-old virgin."

"Not true," Jamie says, and doesn't even look annoyed. The man has the patience of a saint. "And, furthermore-"

"Shut  _ up _ ," Ales groans, still texting.

" _ Futhermore, _ " Jamie says pointedly. "You don't have to have sex with your sugar daddy, if you don't want to. I read an article about it."

"Perfect," Sharpy grins at Jamie. "You can still apply, Chubbs!"

"Bunch mox," someone says, all the way down the table. It's probably Klinger.

Everyone laughs, even Jamie. They all get like this, off the ice. Anyone's a target of some good-natured chirping. Tonight's Tyler's night, with a side of Jamie. 

Usually, it's the Jamie Show all the way, but today, Tyler Seguin was sent a Tom Ford tie from Patrice Bergeron. It's beautiful, really - navy blue with really cool stitching. In the note that had come with the tie, Patrice had said it would look best with a navy suit.

So tonight, Tyler's wearing a navy suit. You can all guess which tie, too.

"He's my  _ friend _ ," Tyler sighs, haughty, wiping his mouth with his napkin. "You guys must not know what that's like."

"Tyler, I have friends," Spezza begins, ignoring Rouss's interjected  _ debatable.  _ "And none of them send me ties out of the blue."

"It wasn't out of the blue," Tyler protests. "It was like, a condolence tie. Because I couldn't win it with them."

"Oh, if it's a World Cup tie, then," Sharpy raises his hands in mock-defeat. Not real defeat. Patrick Sharp has never accepted defeat in his life.

" _ I _ didn't get a tie from Patrice Bergeron," Jamie frowns.

"You didn't play, either," Jordie looks pained.

"Mr. Lower Body injury," Rouss grins, like the fucking irritant he is.

"No," Jamie demands. "This is Make-Fun-Of-Tyler-Night, for his fucking Boston Bruin sugar daddy. My night is next week."

"Oh, darling," Sharpy grins wickedly. "It is  _ always _ Make-Fun-Of-Jamie night."

 

They spend the rest of the night making fun of Jamie, as is tradition. But Tyler can't stop looking at his tie.

He and Patrice were always close. Tyler's first year in Boston, Patrice was one of the only guys on the team that was actually  _ nice  _ to him. (Marchy was, too, but Marchy was nice to everybody. (Well, everybody on the Bruins.)) Patrice taught Tyler how to cook for himself, did his best to keep Tyler from drinking himself stupid, and he was the best damn liney Tyler had ever had. (Mentally, Tyler adds that Jamie's pretty great, too, because Jamie shouldn't ever doubt that.)

And it's hard not to love a guy you win a Cup with. You don't really ever experience that kind of joy, of being so exhausted you feel it in your marrow, but everything being  _ worth it.  _ All those horrible practices where he felt like he didn't belong, all the disappointment that came with going second - all worth it, once you win it all.

Then, you know, the lockout. That was shitty in it's own way, because Boston had only started to feel like home when he had to go. And then he came back to Boston, and then it  _ really _ felt like home, and then he  _ really  _ had to go.

Patrice was there for all of that. Yeah. Patrice is definitely one of his best friends. There's no one else who  _ gets  _ it like he does, gets  _ Tyler  _ like he does. Patrice has always had a read on him, intrinsically known when Tyler was depressed or sick or hungover. Tyler would have been mortified, if any other teammate understood all that. But not Patrice.

So Tyler left, and Patrice stayed, but they never stopped being friends. Tyler's mom still sends Bergy Christmas cards. Patrice and him text, the night before big games. It's the same stuff they used to say in Boston. Patrice would tell him that all he needed to do was want it, want it so bad that it made Tyler's chest hurt, made him dream about it. Tyler would nod. Tyler would want it.

And yeah, he's always had a little bit of hero-worship, but that's normal. He got over it, mostly. It's just respect, now. He listens to what Bergy has to say. If Bergy sends him a nice tie and tells him to put on a nice suit, then yeah. He'll do that.

Bergy has also sent him cologne, because Tyler always really liked the one he wore that second year in Boston. And once, Tyler had gotten this really soft fisherman's sweater, from this really high-end boutique in Boston, but that's just because there's not another one in Dallas, and Patrice knows Tyler. Patrice must have just guessed that Tyler missed that shop. Because Tyler did. It's just - it's Boston stuff. Stuff that makes him think of two of the best years of his life, spent with one of the best people in his life. 

So what if that stuff just happens to be super fucking expensive?  _ Life  _ is super fucking expensive. Tyler's got nice taste, too. He didn't use to. He just always wanted to be like Patrice. That doesn't make Patrice his sugar daddy. That makes him, like, his mentor.

Tyler calls him that night, as he's taking the suit off. "Hey, man," he says, once Bergy picks up.

"Segs," Patrice says in happy greeting. "You get the tie?"

"Yeah, man," Tyler grins, smoothing it over his chest. "Looks nice."

"Yeah?" Patrice has to be grinning, too. "You always had such shitty taste in ties."

"Not true," Tyler lies. He knows. He has come far.

"So true," Patrice shoots back. "I remember, back in Boston, you had this  _ horrible  _ silver, paisley thing-"

"How do you even  _ remember  _ that?" Tyler's laughing, though, running a hand through his hair. 

"It was burned into my retina," Bergy's laughing, too, deep and slow. "I see it every time I close my eyes."

"Fuck you," Tyler's actually giggling. "Like you weren't eighteen once. I know you, fucker, you bleached your hair."

"For  _ hockey _ ," Patrice scoffs. "I did that for my  _ team. _ "

"King of style," Tyler teases, and loosens his tie. 

Patrice is saying something else, and Tyler's only half-listening. It's just - the tie feels nice, between his forefinger and his thumb, and the low steadiness of Patrice's voice - it feels like he's a rookie again, like he's sitting with his head bowed, listening reverently to whatever the veteran had to say.

Some things don't change, Tyler learns. He knows Patrice too well to call him a hero anymore, but he still worships.

 

The Bruins fly into Dallas the next week, the day before the afternoon game they'll play. Over the phone, Bergy and Tyler had made half-plans, drinks at Tyler's or getting dinner somewhere low-key. He makes Patrice promise that he won't tell Marchy, because Marchy will want to come, and Marchy will bring up every single one of Tyler's shitty tattoos.

And there's some weird part of Tyler that's jealous, kind of, that Marchy gets to see Patrice all the time, and Tyler's limited to these small visits, that always feel too short and too temporary. Seeing Marchy and Bergy together in Boston, without Tyler, feels like when your two best friends start dating, and you don't get invited to hang out anymore. (Not that Patrice would  _ ever  _ date Brad. Marchy's got a family, and Patrice has a higher standard than that.)

Tyler picks up Patrice from his hotel in his Ferrari. Because he can fucking do that.

Patrice gets in, and there's this amused look on his face, half- _ are you fucking with me right now  _ and half  _ you are the worst.  _ Tyler's just grinning. "Welcome," he says, and peels back out on to the road, going ten over the speed limit. 

"Subtle," Patrice sighs, and Tyler knows he's talking about the car. Tyler just grins some more.

"You know me, Bergy," he sing-songs. "What did you expect?"

Patrice just shrugs, looking out the window at the city around them. "This, probably. You've always liked nice things."

_ Yeah,  _ he thinks.  _ Like your cologne, and your sweater, and your tie. _

"I'm making big boy money now," he replies, and speeds up for a yellow. When he makes it, Bergy doesn't even look impressed. Something in Tyler wilts. "Well, not like you, I guess, if you can afford to send me designer ties."

That makes Patrice laugh, and Tyler's grinning again. "You liked it?"

"Yes, I liked it," Tyler rolls his eyes. They went over this on the phone. "Put it on with the navy suit, just like you told me to."

"Did you?" Patrice's voice is low. It sounds even better in person.

"I looked good," Tyler's not sure, but... Yeah, he wants to be talking about this. He  _ really  _ wants to be talking about this. "Just like you said I would."

"Knew you would," is all he says, and his voice is still low, but he's also still looking  _ so  _ unaffected, glancing out the window.

"Wore the cologne, too," Tyler adds, because he did. He hadn't even thought about it. It's just what he wears, now. 

It hits him, then, that Patrice fucking  _ has  _ him. He's had him since he was a rookie, unsure of his footing and in need of a vet's guidance. He's had him since he was in Switzerland, feeling lost and so scared. He's had him since he came to Dallas, when Tyler knew he needed to prove himself. Patrice Bergeron has more of Tyler Seguin than anybody else.

"Good," Patrice says, and Tyler is so suddenly hanging on to every single word.

That is the only word for a little while, because they're at the restaurant, and Patrice is carefully perusing the menu, and Tyler's forgotten how to read.

He can't fucking believe himself. What a goddamn cliche he is. All the rookies get crushes on the vets. He remembers Kaner, drunk off his ass in Switzerland, telling Tyler how he wanted to lovingly, gently, gag on Sharpy's dick. Del Zotto once had a really-not-all-that strange thing for Hank. He'd thought all of them were so stupid, but Tyler's never really considered himself to be all that smart, in the grand scheme of things.

He's never been super patient, either. He always made the first move - when he saw something he liked, he got it. 

But Patrice Bergeron isn't just something he  _ likes.  _ He isn't some guy at a bar. This is his former teammate, one of his best friends, and yeah, probably a mentor of his. He doesn't know how to make the first move. He barely even knows how to move at all.

"What's aioli?" He blurts out, because the silence was getting too loud.

Patrice looks up from the menu, thoughtful. "It's a sauce. Garlic and olive oil. You'll like it."

Yes, Tyler will definitely like that. Patrice knows him. He's not his sugar daddy, fuck those guys. He just knows, and wants, what's best for Tyler. That's all it is.

 

Marchy is up his ass all night, and Jamie's too. All the Stars hate when people pick on Jamie - that's  _ their  _ job. So Rouss punches him in the mouth, and Marchy loses a tooth, and Rouss has to sit in the box for, like, an appropriate amount of time.

"Your new boys like to fight," Bergy says, sometime in the second period. It's after Jordie hooks Torey Krug, which is like, two of the most different people in the world, and it makes Tyler laugh. They're tearing at each other now. 

"My boys?" Tyler arches his eyebrows, and laughs a little hysterically. He's always right on the edge, when he's playing, too cocky and almost too secure in himself. But that only ever started when he started here. "Maybe your boys like to get hit."

Bergy grins, shrugging. "Marchy does."

Tyler literally cackles, and he's not embarrassed about it, because this is so fucking  _ fun.  _ "Yeah, Marchy does."

"Quaider, sometimes," he says as an afterthought, tightening his gloves.

"You guys must like it rough," Tyler grins, in possibly his least subtle attempt at flirting, like, ever. But, damn him, he's always a charming little scamp - self-professed. How is Patrice supposed to know that this, that  _ he _ , is different?

"You were a Bruin once," Patrice grins. "Wouldn't you know?"

"Oh, baby," Tyler grins, not allowing himself to be wooed. Not right now, "It's been a long time since I've been a Bruin. You gotta remind me."

Patrice laughs out loud, and skates off to say something to Backes. Tyler just stares after him. Because, yeah.

They go into double-OT, but the Stars win against the Bruins after Sharpy nets one in. It's a weird thing, when the two teams play, because Tyler sees all those familiar faces. From his years in Boston, he knows where Tuukka's least confident, but from his years in Dallas, he knows how hard Chara backchecks. He comes off the ice sore. He likes it that way.

He showers fast, says a few words to media about playing hard and giving a hundred percent. Jamie's getting all the attention tonight, anyway. Tyler likes that - Jamie's the best on their team. He's their captain. He's also maybe the easiest person in the world to tease. Tyler likes that, too.

He puts on his post-game suit fast, tightens that navy blue tie. The suit's navy, too. Nothing is an accident as he lingers outside the guest locker room, idly scrolling through Twitter. He favorites a picture a fan took of him and Bergy, talking on the ice. Bergy's grinning.

"Tyler," and that's Bergy now. Tyler looks up, and yup, that's a good look on Patrice. Grey suit, white button down, no tie. Like a fucking winner.

"Hey, man," he straightens up. "Just came to say bye. Marchy told me you guys are flying out tonight."

Patrice nods, and carefully surveys Tyler's entire body. It's calculating, not cruel. Like he's looking at art or something. Finally, he looks up, into Tyler's eyes, with a slight smile. "Very nice," he says, and his voice isn't quite soft, but it's a close thing.

"This old thing?" Tyler tries out mock-bravado, but it falls a bit too short. It sounds almost hopeful.

"Twice in one week?" Patrice frowns slightly. "You own other suits, right?"

This is not going as planned.

(The plan was, Patrice sees Tyler, Tyler looks sexy as hell, Patrice falls at Tyler's feet, they make out for a long time, Patrice flies back to Boston but leaves his heart in Texas.)

"Yes, I own other suits," Tyler huffs out, rolling his eyes, because of course he owns other suits. It's just - this is the only one that he knows, for sure, Patrice likes. And that's his main criteria, these days.

"I don't think you do," Patrice is almost smiling, and there's definitely a teasing light in his eyes, but no, Tyler is not having it with this. "I think this might be the only suit you own."

"It's definitely not the only suit I own," Tyler's getting annoyed, now.

"Oh, but it is," Patrice is grinning now, pleased with himself. "I guess I'll just have to send you a new one."

_ Oh. _

Tyler's dying and also a little hard, but he better pony the fuck up if Patrice wants to be like this. "You'll need my measurements."

Patrice nods, like he knew Tyler would say that. "You can send them to my assistant."

"Can I?" Tyler is trying very hard to seem unimpressed. "Who's your assistant?"

"Oh, of course," Patrice shakes his head at himself. "His name is Brad Marchand, M-A-R-"

He's laughing too hard to finish his lame joke, and Tyler is so fucking gone on this guy, it's stupid.

Tyler's only half joking when he sends his measurements to Patrice that night. He won't get the text until he lands, of course, but then he'll have them. He probably won't send a suit, though.

 

Tyler's right. Patrice doesn't send a suit.

Patrice sends  _ three _ suits.

One black, one charcoal grey, and one heather grey. All from John Varvatos. Tyler puts each one of them on, and they fit beautifully. And just because he's doing his very fucking best to seem like he's handling all of this super well, he sends a picture of himself in each one to Bergy. He spends an unnecessary amount of time posing in the bathroom mirror, then fixing the lighting, then posing again. And all he gets for his efforts is a curt  _ Looks good  _ from Patrice.

Yes, Tyler knows he looks good. He just wants a  _ little  _ more validation. And Bergy has to fucking know that.

He's thinking about texting him back while at team dinner at Jamie's house. It's less formal, just all the guys sitting by the pool and eating nutritionist-approved barbecue. He should be having a great time. He should be joining in on teasing Jamie. But, unfortunately, his heart's not in it.

"Jesus Christ, Chubbs," Sharpy's saying about something, shaking his head disapprovingly. Both of his daughters are climbing all over Jamie, and Jamie's just taking it, chewing on a fried chicken wing placidly. "Learn how to take a freaking picture. You look dead in the team picture, like Oduya and Benny are just holding you up. It's like  _ Weekend at Bernie's _ . Take a shower. Brush your hair."

"Seriously," Spezza agrees, and that proves to be a dire mistake, because next, Jamie smiles really slowly, and everyone braces themselves, because he's either about to say something so legendary Tyler will tell his grandchildren about it, or Jamie's about to ask where the trashcan is in his own home.

"You have a point, Spez," Jamie says, mouth full of chicken. "I should really be listening to you. Didn't you use to do baby modeling?"

"YES HE DID," Ales is almost shouting, grinning so wide it has to hurt. That might be the most emotion Tyler has ever seen him display. "OH MY GOD YES HE DID."

And everyone's Googling pictures now, and Spezza's trying to get everyone to  _ not _ Google pictures, and Jamie's just smiling to himself, eating his fried chicken.

Tyler's phone is still out, fingers hovering over the touchscreen keyboard. Patrice's text came in an hour ago, and it remains unanswered, taunting him. And, fuck it, life is short, so he types out  _ Is it weird to say that I wish you were here?  _ before he can stop himself.

He regrets it almost immediately, and shotguns a beer, also because life is short. Rouss films it and sends it to Demers, because they fucking miss that guy. Tyler's happy to be the star of the show for a little bit. It helps to keep his mind off the important stuff.

Everyone applauds. Sharpy goes back to roasting the hell out of his teammates, and Tyler wonders if he did the same for the Blackhawks. Tyler's spent very limited time with Jonathan Toews, purely in a Team Canada environment, but he can imagine that he gives Sharpy enough material to work with. And there's the thought of Patrick, too - Patrick, who'd had such an unbelievable crush on Sharpy that Tyler had initially just thought he was fucking with him. He'd spend hours waxing poetic about his voice, his hair, his sense of humor.

"He's perfect," Kaner would say, dismayed, his head in Tyler's lap in the backseat of a taxi home from a Swiss bar. (He'll disagree with that now, because the man may be a good friend and teammate, but he is as much of a goddamn mess as Tyler is.)

"I know," Tyler didn't, but he knew better than to argue.

"He's  _ married _ ," and then Kaner would start to cry, because Kaner cries at everything, and Tyler would wonder how someone could, could, get under your  _ skin  _ like that.

He knows how that feels, now. Patrice is in his every thought. He buys aioli at Trader Joe's, wears that damn cologne every day, and spends more time jerking off to the thought of being on his knees in front of Patrice than jerking off to the thought of anything else. And when they talk on the phone, Tyler will close his eyes and listen, and he'll think about taking up French so he can, like,  _ understand  _ Patrice even better. 

He wants all of him. He wants summers spent up in Quebec, he wants Team Canada to know not to come into their hotel room without knocking, he wants Patrice's dick in him, basically. But he wants to hold Patrice's hand, and to root for the Bruins when they play everybody but the Stars, and he wants Patrice to want him back.

His phone vibrates in his pocket, and he pulls it out faster than he means to.

_ No, that's not weird, _ Patrice writes.  _ I can't count the amount of times I almost told you that after the trade. _

And Tyler goes all melty as he writes back, stubborn:  _ That's different _

Patrice responds almost immediately.  _ Not all that different. _

Neither of them say anything about Tyler missing Patrice. These days, it's a given. The sun will set, water will be wet, and Tyler will be in Dallas, missing Patrice.

 

The next few weeks pass quickly, and in a couple of weeks, they play Boston, in Boston. So. That.

He and Patrice are talking all the time, enough that the guys on the team think Tyler has a boyfriend again. They're all cautiously optimistic, asking when he'll start bringing him to WAG stuff, because Julie and Abby and Katie are all really pumped that Tyler's seeing someone so great that Tyler will laugh out loud at his texts.

"It's Patrice," he admits finally, as they're all over at Spezza's watching a Mavs game.

Jordie's face lights the fuck up, and suddenly everyone is screaming.

"Dude," Rouss is grinning like the little fuck he is.

"Tyler," Eaves is careful.

" _ No _ ," Ales is actually looking up from his phone.

"You're sexting him, aren't you?" Sharpy looks like the cat that caught the canary. "Oh my God. Oh my  _ God.  _ No wonder you got that Armani wallet. Your sugar daddy's keeping you in line."

"Wait, what?" Jamie's just walked into the room. "What's happening?"

"Honestly, just go back out," Oduya's saying, shaking his head mournfully.

But Jamie doesn't. He's got his captain face on. "Ty, what? Is everything okay?"

"I'm  _ fine _ ," Tyler's not fine. He's pretty fucking annoyed, actually. "Look. He's not my fucking - he's not that. He's my friend."

"That man does not just want to be your friend, Seggy," Jordie's not joking anymore, thank God. (And that's one thing he's always loved about these guys. They know when it's time to man the fuck up for each other.)

"I think he does," Tyler flops back into the couch cushions. "I have made it so abundantly clear that I want more, and he just. He doesn't."

"Okay, Seggy," Sharpy's being serious, too. "I had this same problem with Abby."

Tyler arches an eyebrow. "Abby sent you a Rolex and didn't blink when you sent her a shirtless picture of you wearing it?"

"A fucking Ro- nevermind," Sharpy's shaking his head, shaking himself out of it. "Okay, no. Not that. But. We were friends first, just like you two. And she'd seen me flirt with anything that moved, all through college. You're like that, too, Ty, don't argue with me. If it's got a pulse, you've called it pretty and gotten its Snapchat, and then you probably sent it a shirtless picture." Tyler snorts, but Sharpy ignores him. "Bergy knows that about you. Abby knew that about me, but back then, we only had Nokias, and I'm getting away from my point. Sorry. Point is: He probably doesn't know you mean it like that. You just gotta show him that you do."

Someone whistles low.

"Who knew," Klinger says, thoughtful.

They all go back to watching the game, but it's a little more awkward. Jamie's goofy ignorance is gone - he keeps shooting Tyler these concerned little glances. It's totally out of the love of his big dumb heart, and in that moment, Tyler loves every single person in this room with every piece of him that does not belong to Patrice Bergeron.

 

They fly up to Boston one cold day in January, and Tyler is really, really jittery. He's wearing the black suit Patrice got him, with no tie, and Gucci loafers that, yeah, Patrice bought him.

Sharpy looks pained when he shows up to the airport. "You would have made the best gold digger," he says, shaking his head sadly. "Unfortunately, God gave you talent."

"Unfortunately for you," Tyler nods, sighing. "I never thought to ask - how does second line feel?"

"Oh, honey," Sharpy gives him a look. "I hear those team breakfasts taste real nice in Boston."

" _ Ouch _ ," Tyler laughs, and soon he's got Sharpy in a headlock, and Sharpy's too concerned about his hair to do much fighting.

The flight is easy, long. He sits with Jamie, because Jamie's accidentally become one of his best friends in Dallas, and they talk about All-Star. Jamie's bringing his girlfriend, and that's awesome, because Tyler loves Katie. Katie makes Jamie, like, fourteen percent cooler. Tyler will be going alone, because Patrice can't be his plus-one, because Patrice was invited all on his own. Also because Tyler will probably never be brave enough to ask Patrice to be his plus-one.

They touch down in Boston, and it's snowing. Tyler's kind of missed that, too. It's almost too easy to fall in love with Texas heat, because he can still tan in September, but Boston's got no apologies. It's a little hard to love, and it's hard to get loved back. Tyler knows that better than anybody. But this is also the city that idolizes the man that Tyler would gladly spend the rest of his life with, so he can kind of support that.

At the same time, he knows he's about to get absolutely fucking destroyed here. Not his team, maybe, but Tyler himself. He's got to get ready for the jeers and the chants and every single reporter wanting either a redemption arc or proof that he's nothing without Boston. He knows he can't give them either. All he can give is his all.

They get checked in at the hotel, and Tyler gets his own room. He's pretty sure everyone on his team thinks Tyler's about to fuck the life out of Patrice Bergeron, but to be completely honest, Tyler's fucking scared. He's never liked anybody like this. Patrice makes Tyler want to be careful, to be good. He's never wanted to be good before.

He calls Patrice.

"Hey," he says, and his own voice rasps. "I'm here."

"You're here," Patrice says, and his voice is so gentle, and Tyler has to sit down. "Hello."

"Hi."

"Do you want to get a drink?"

Tyler wants a lot more than a drink from Patrice Bergeron. "I'm actually, like, so hungry."

"Dinner, then?"

"Yeah, if you can."

"Sure I can. You don't mind that Marchy's coming?"

Tyler freezes. "Um, what?"

Patrice is laughing. "I'm kidding."

Tyler's laughing, too. "Jesus. You need to incorporate someone other than Brad Marchand into your humor, please. This is a formal request."

"Who do you suggest?" He sounds like he's smiling.

"Patrick Sharp," Tyler says immediately. "That man is ruining my life."

"I barely know him," Patrice replies. "Jamie Benn?"

"Don't you fucking dare," Tyler's giggling, but he meant that. You only get to fuck with Jamie Benn if you're a Dallas Star, how many times does he have to say it?

"Fine, fine," Patrice is laughing, too. "Keep thinking, I'm on my way."

By the time Tyler's climbed into Patrice's Range Rover, he's come up with Zdeno Chara, Jonathan Toews, and Sidney Crosby.

"You aim so high, Seggy," Patrice laughs, shaking his head. Tyler barely sees it. He's just staring at Patrice's hands - one draped over the wheel, the other resting on his thigh.

God is trying Tyler Seguin.

They go to some steakhouse that Tyler doesn't recognize. It opened in 2014, he reads on the menu. But he still gets a wary look from the waiter, because the shit he did after winning the cup is practically written in the Boston Independent School District's history textbooks.

Tyler gets steak frites, and Patrice gets some fancy chicken. They don't talk much, just eat, but when they do talk, it's not about hockey. Patrice asks about Tyler's dogs. Tyler asks if Patrice's apartment still has that shitty showerhead. They both talk about the off-seasons they'll have. Patrice wants to travel, and Tyler wants to do whatever the fuck Patrice is doing.

He comes so close to telling him everything, because it would be so easy, just to reach across the table for his hand, and maybe nothing would change. But Tyler's had wine, and he doesn't want Patrice to think he's just a drunk teenager again. Because he's more than that, now. He knows how to take care of himself. 

He'd take care of Patrice, if Patrice would let him.

 

It's third period of the game against the Bruins, and the Stars are losing 5-1. The whole stadium is singing  _ Seguin, Seguin,  _ and Tyler really didn't think it would bother him, it  _ shouldn't  _ bother him, but he's playing like shit, and the one goal was a dirty one, netted by Jamie, who didn't even look happy about it.

They'll lose, and everyone will blame Tyler. Tyler will blame Tyler, too. It's easiest, that way.

He's skating around, aimless, as Rouss is trying to fucking win a fight. He won't. Winning isn't in the cards for them tonight. 

It wouldn't feel so shitty if it weren't  _ here. _

And then Patrice is at his side. He doesn't even have the decency to hide his pity - he's just staring at Tyler, those big eyes so sad, like Tyler's about to splinter apart. "Seggy, hey."

It's the most Patrice is said to him all night. Tyler doesn't answer him, just fucks around with his stick. 

"Fuck them," Patrice skates closer, his voice low, and only Tyler can hear him. "Fuck those people. Those people aren't fans."

"No shit, they're not fans," Tyler spits out, along with an angry laugh. Patrice somehow manages to look even sadder. Tyler is really, really not having it. "Listen, good job tonight. You played one fucking hell of a game."

"This isn't your fault," Patrice is saying, and it sounds like every fucking thing he ever said after Tyler got traded.

Tyler skates the fuck away from the worst conversation of his life, and Patrice stays where Tyler was.

Four minutes later, there's ten seconds left on the clock. The Stars pulled their goalie, and Patrice is skating down the ice, alone towards the empty net, with no defensemen fast enough to keep up. He misses the empty netter, and it's totally fucking on purpose.

Tyler screams on the bench, and he breaks his stick. Everyone's staring at him, even the Bruins. And from where he is on the ice, Patrice is staring at Tyler. Tyler gets up, and he storms out.

 

An hour later, he's gotten a stern talking-to from Lindy, that's more  _ don't do that again  _ than  _ you're jeopardizing this team.  _ Lindy doesn't look like he pities Tyler, but he's gotta know how awful that was, when the whole stadium was singing  _ bye-bye Tyler, we hate to see you go _ loud enough that Tyler could hear it from the guest locker room.

Tyler thinks, also, that Lindy kept him long enough that the press's time has run out, and Tyler doesn't have to answer any questions about the worst game of his life. The team's already showered and changing into suits when Tyler walks in, and everyone gives him the same smile that everybody got that night.  _ Not enough, but next time. _

Tyler really wishes he hadn't packed that navy suit and tie. It'd meant to be a joke. He'd wanted to see Bergy after, and make Bergy laugh, and then probably get another suit in the mail. But now it just feels fucking hollow.

In some dumb, chivalrous act, he'd missed an empty netter. He'd probably thought it might make things a little easier on Tyler, but as much as Patrice knows Tyler, Tyler know Patrice. He would have made that goal, had it been anybody else but Tyler. And he has no idea how to handle that. He just wishes Bergy would have made that fucking goal, instead of, of,  _ coddling  _ Tyler. It was insulting.

He and Jamie are the last out of the locker room. He knows Jamie's just making sure Tyler doesn't have to walk out alone, so he's doing stupid shit, redoing his tie, messing with his hair. Tyler has never appreciated him more.

But when they walk out, there's Patrice waiting, and Jamie's footing gets all awkward. Tyler sighs. "You go on, I'll be out in a minute."

Jamie nods, wordless, and heads out to the bus. Tyler is staring at the floor, because he really wants to yell right now, and he's not about to let himself get distracted.

"You have to stop," he says finally.

There's a little pause before Patrice says, "Stop what?"

"Stop giving me things," Tyler forces out. "I don't want any of it. I don't want your suits or your cologne or your watch. I don't want you giving away points. I don't want any of it. Stop it."

The silence feels a little more stunned, and it's definitely longer. Tyler forces himself to look up, forces himself to look at Patrice. 

Patrice looks hollowed out. He's still looking like he did on the ice, but now, now, there's not any pity. It's just a blatant wondering -  _ what?  _ "I thought you liked all that," Patrice says finally, his voice so soft it's barely audible. "That missed shot was wrong, I knew that as soon as I did it. I'm sorry. I'm sorry about the fans. You don't deserve any of that." He pauses. "But... I thought you liked everything else."

Tyler sighs, exasperated. "Sure. I guess. But I don't - I think you think that's it. That I just really like, I don't know, money."

"Don't you?" Patrice is still speaking so quietly.

Tyler rubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands. "Yes. But I make my own money now. I can buy myself a suit. Or three, if I want to. I don't care that you can send me all that fancy shit. You don't have to fucking impress me."

Patrice doesn't say anything. He's just staring at Tyler.

"Like, it didn't matter what you were sending me. Any time I got anything from you - the only thing that mattered was that it was  _ from _ you."

"Tyler," Patrice says, so careful.

"No, stop," Tyler says, and he's really not even angry anymore, but he's on a roll, and he wants to get it all out before Lindy comes back in here and drags Tyler back to the bus by his ear. "You're listening to me right now. I really fucking like you, Patrice. I might even love you. I probably do. But I know you, and I know you think I'm the same idiot rookie I was. I'm not. I'm really, really not. I do a lot of dumb shit, still - I send you pictures of me without a shirt on, I drink like it's the end of Prohibition, and I don't call my mom as often as I should. But I'm better. I know better. I can take care of myself now. I don't  _ need  _ you to. If you want to, then I will absolutely let you, but it's not like I'm floundering out here. I  _ like  _ Dallas, and I  _ love  _ my team. I'm happy. And I really want to make you happy. And I'm out of shit to say, so, I guess it's your turn."

All the sad is gone from Patrice's face, replaced by a soft, kind smile that Tyler has gotten a million times before, but now he knows what it means. 

"I'm proud of you, Tyler," he says, and his voice is low, and Tyler fights the urge to close his eyes like they're on the phone. "And I know you're happy. I know you're stronger than you were. I'm so proud of you." He pauses, steels himself. "But there's still a part of me that has - I'm not even sure what to call it - an instinct, I guess, to take care of you. I want to see you in nice things and I want you to miss me and I want to make you happy. I know you can do that by yourself. I just don't want you to have to."

"Selfish," Tyler says, and he knows it's too flirty for all of this, but they both know who he is.

"Maybe," Patrice shrugs, hands in his pockets. "But I'm in love with you, Tyler, and I think that makes a person a little greedy. I want so much of you. I want all of you."

"Oh my God," Tyler's grinning now, and he takes a few steps closer, and he wasn't planning on kissing Patrice, but, you know. Whoops.

Patrice kisses like a fucking pro. It's got Tyler weak in the knees and he's not really sure how he's standing anymore. Probably because Patrice has his arms wrapped around Tyler's waist, and Tyler feels very small, and he really likes that.

In the end Jamie just texts Tyler that the bus already left. They don't fly back to Dallas until the next morning, anyway, so Tyler goes to Patrice's house.

They make dinner, and it feels even better than it did when Tyler was a rookie and Patrice was just trying to teach him how to not burn the building down. Because now there's kissing.

There's also Tyler grinding down on Patrice's cock later that night, slow enough to make it hurt. Patrice keeps calling him  _ baby  _ and Tyler's almost sobbing, he can't control himself.

"You're doing so good for me, baby," Patrice says, because it's not like Tyler wants to be going this slow. It's just because Patrice asked, and Tyler will always give him whatever he wants. "So good."

"I wanna be good," he whines out, head falling forward.

"You are, you are," Patrice pulls him close to his chest, kisses the top of Tyler's head. "You're perfect, baby. You can speed up a little, if you want."

Tyler's face is all screwed up, but he shakes his head, hard. He can be good, he can be good.  He forces himself to slow down, to be good for Patrice, that's all he wants. And when Patrice finally tells him he can come, it's maybe the best thing Tyler's ever felt.

"You were so amazing," Patrice is whispering in his ear, thrusting a little faster, still inside Tyler. "So good. I love you, Ty, you're so good for me."

"Love you," Tyler sobs out, curling in closer to him. "Love you, thank you."

Another hour later, once they've showered together and Tyler has brushed his teeth, he'll confess that he's never cried during sex before, and Patrice will laugh so hard that Tyler gives him a stellar fucking blowjob just to shut him up. It doesn't work, because Patrice talks so dirty that it makes  _ Tyler  _ blush. Just when you think you know someone.

 

They wake up with the sun the next morning, and don't get out of bed until Jamie calls and tells Tyler he'd better come back to the hotel. By then, Tyler's been rimmed within an inch of his life, and he's not sure he could move again without Patrice's prodding.

"They're never going to shut up about this," Tyler sighs as he reaches for last night's suit. "Like. This will follow me to the grave. I went home with my liney-best-friend-boyfriend."

Patrice kisses his cheek in condolence, and drives Tyler back to his hotel. The whole way there, Tyler's just thinking of when he sees Patrice next. All-Star Weekend, for sure. Maybe they'll have some overlaps in off days. And if they both make it to playoffs, then they'll both make it to playoffs. And then they can root for each other.

 

Patrice doesn't stop sending him things, because he totally has a sugar daddy kink, and Tyler fucking loves him. They're not always designer gifts, these days. More and more, it's a toque of Patrice's, a post card from Boston, and just once, a framed, signed picture of Brad Marchand, which is Tyler's favorite.

Tyler sends stuff too, now. He sends dick pics. Also grown-up things, like t-shirts that smell like Tyler but also Bergy's cologne, and a pair of cowboy boots. He's an adult.

One day, Tyler gets a white-gold wedding ring in the mail, which is dumb, because it's the off-season, and he's living in Toronto  _ with  _ Patrice, and Patrice watches him open it like he's forgotten what he ordered, like he couldn't have just handed it to Tyler.

Tyler loves the shit out of him, he really does.

**Author's Note:**

> Tyler did once wear the ugliest tie of all time, and it was silver and paisley. And Patrice Bergeron really did dye his hair when he played in Providence! He still looked beautiful. Tyler and Patrick Kane played hockey together in Switzerland during the lockout, too. And Jason Spezza modeled as a baby! What!!!!! And Tyler was scratched from a Bruins game after missing team breakfast, so that's what Sharpy's joking about.
> 
> Thanks for all your support on my last fic. It meant a lot :)
> 
> (I don't like Kane, just wanted to provide some examples for rookie/vet crushes that Tyler might know of.)


End file.
